


the kind of heroes we were bred to be

by atmospherical



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, F/M, Lydia Martin & Stiles Stilinski Friendship, Magical Lydia Martin, Murder, Psychic Stiles Stilinski, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-21
Updated: 2014-02-21
Packaged: 2018-01-13 07:05:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1217074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atmospherical/pseuds/atmospherical
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>teenagers, like any other teenager you'd see pass the road; the kind of teenagers who interpret power in a slightly different way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the kind of heroes we were bred to be

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings for: blood, (depictions of) violence, wrong interpretation of power as well as the mistreatment of a special gift and the fact that this is my first TW fic ever (but certainly not the first time writing). A two-parts fic because it's getting too long. Also, author ships Stydia in every possible way, romantically or siblings-way.

Lydia rubs her hands altogether and feels the musky scent of dry blood evaporates the way thin smoke of a lighted cigarette does under a rusty, running tap cries dirty water the shades of a muddy ground. It shrieked and squealed and it clashed in her eardrums when the valve turned clockwise, old age surrounded by mold and moss left to die cranky, croaky. Both the tap and the water that came crashing down on her skin, her perfect perfect smooth skin, make everything even more disgusting than the situation she was already in, pungent smell like ammonia and chlorine dancing in the air under her nostrils Lydia gapes a little, feeling nauseous.

She blows a sigh and tries to regain back the control she was born with. Lydia stares back at the reflection against the mirror, at the picture of a bruised and battered girl whose foundation and powder are starting to crack, revealing skin and flesh of pathetic, bitter truth of a wrong, sinful deed. She gulps and tries to breathe and mumbles _numbers, formulas, components_ because Lydia Martin is a _goddamn genius_ , not a _goddamn coward_ and she can pull it - _everything_ \- off with a confident flip of her strawberry blond hair and red lipstick a fiery tingle across her lips.

 And for that to work, she has to look beautiful, organized, absolute (because that's the way people remember Lydia Martin, always and forever will be) so Lydia smothers away the traces of dust and grey ash from her cheeks, combs a hand down her locks and gathers the remaining fallen pieces of herself, mascara and concealer and lipstick patched she throws a smile into the mirror, possibly corrupted possibly wicked.

Lydia is now herself again.

 

-

 

She folds her arms and covers a hand on her lips, hiding the arch of her cherry spiced red lips and the sinister grin they are forming. _Oh god,_ how she wants to laugh and jump in excitement by the sight of rotten flesh of charcoal outburst, peeling skin revealing tissues drenched in dry blood, like the kind of morning waffles and pancakes she loves to eat during breakfast, the kind of breakfast she jams with strawberry conserve.

Except this time, blood is her strawberry jam.

She observes the way her brother ( _step_ , she amends, _step brother_ ) tries so hard in doing whatever shit he was told to do without actually grinning, let alone laughing. Lydia snickers and toss her hair beyond her shoulder, a fearless upbeat gesture with her head held high as she once again builds herself a virtual ground where queens snap necks by a command or two, "come on, Stiles. Get it done, _fast_."

"My apologies for having only two hands instead of eight," he grunts, empty gallons carelessly thrown around their feet. He runs a hand across his hair, tangled knots of raven black strands too dark to be seen in between tall trees deep inside a forest far from where the townspeople tuck themselves in (it's past midnight, they shouldn't even _be_ in here!), feeling the excitement the thirst the _need_ to watch things burn, "you know I can just flick a fire and--"

"Just shut up and do it."

Lydia hates waiting and she hates having to deal with one of Stiles' infamous sarcastic jokes, mostly growing tired of dealing with it ever since they've started working together on....well, _this_ , whatever and however you want to address this teamwork. She takes a few cautious steps back and counts seconds like her mind is a ticking clock of a resonating bomb soon to explode, gut clenched impatiently waiting, staring at the Zippo lighter in Stiles' hand, "finish it."

So he did.

 

The lighter fell from his hand in slow record, cinematic negatives of black and white played a repetitive reel before their conscience, flashing fire hurled itself around a body of an unknown seventeen year old boy the siblings had no idea about. He wasn't their friend but he was guilty of _something_ and that was good enough of a reason to let Lydia sank her knife into his vein and Stiles pouring gasoline onto his carcass. The only fact they knew about the boy shrouded in fire was that he used to be a part of the chemistry class Lydia was in, used to be a part of the classmates who love to push Lydia around and calling her the freak with a knife collection.

 

Stiles opens his mouth, allowing the tension to slip away in exchange of a jolly, jolly ride of laughter.

 

-

 

One of those nights after they told each other what they were doing was - _is_ \- not (never) a guilt by law, the siblings went back to their respective room and locked the door behind them. _Click, click, click_ the sound of it twitching pulsated inside Lydia's skull and she felt like screaming, she always does. Noises were never her best friend; they crawl under Lydia's skin and pierce frostbite into her vein, kicking her feet off the ground and cause the fall of embarrassment. Lydia _does not_ trip and she certainly _does not_ fall. Everyone listens to a leader who knows what she's doing and not a leader who lose her balance and humiliates herself in front of thousands.

 

Except, somewhere along those perfection, Lydia did spot some cracks. Like when she woke up in the middle of the night, screaming her head off and gripping the edge of her bed like something - _someone_ \- would come and stab a stake on her heart instead of the opposite or when she heard pleas and cries from their victim's conscience before Stiles took the lighter or matchstick and burnt him or her down into the depth of hell. Somewhere along those perfect, perfect lines she spotted a blurry spot where she feels threatened, not by an existence of their world but by an existence from the _other_ world.

 

Well now, that doesn't make so much sense now, does it?

 

_Damn it, Lydia. This is why some kids in school think you are crazy!_

 

Even so, in a town everyone thinks she is either too perfect to be crazy _or_ too crazy _not_ to collect sets of knives, she has Stiles as back up plan. She always does. Stiles is the only person, the only _thing_ that keeps her sane, pulls her right to where she was supposed to stand because like his father (her step father, a caring comforting diligent town sheriff who has no idea, not even the slightest, that he has to feed two teenagers with _so, so much_ power nobody actually knew what they actually _are_ ), Stiles is the one you'd go to for help...

 

...though he may not be as helpful as he was when they're doing their business the night only knows.

 

 

In his room on the bed he lies, Stiles tries to align the scenarios in his head, lips muttering whispers counting backwards _(100, 99, 98, 97....)_ until he loses track of time and the numbers he stopped at and so he'd repeat the procedure all over again. Rinse and repeat with a cool off, just the way a serial killer does his job--

 

_Is that what they are? Serial killers?_

 

He _laughs._

Stiles never once thought about it, about what he and Lydia have been doing for the past few weeks. They may be considered new (maybe they are) but when you have an extremely reliable sister with such flair and brilliance, everything - every plan - looks just as perfect and furnished and well polished. They won't be caught, they won't have to testify, they won't be dragged into the court where the knocking hammer and stupid, stupid arguments of finger pointing war occurs because _god bless Stiles for having Lydia as his partner in anything and everything he does_.

He eyes the ceiling like a hawk, like the paint is going to peel off and the cement is going to fall on his feet, breaking bones and shattering joints. The corner of his lips twitched upwards into a thin smile, the kind that mocks you and screams at you for being a fool for trusting too much, for thinking that you know all there is in him. _People are stupid_ , he chuckles, _they think they know him when all they ever noticed was the show he put on_. He's just a really, really good liar, kind of like a tricky little fox and Stiles, he likes that.

 

-

 

The next day, Stiles got himself in trouble.

 

Adrian Harris has a thing for building cubicles to trap his students and lead them towards the edge of a guilty verdict. He draws silly little formulas like complex vortex eating up the circuit and cables in your brain, picks a student (the more perplexed _it_ looks, the better prey _it_ becomes) and threatens _himherhim_ to give him a correct answer else the infamous detention after school. It just so happened that he loves playing vulture on the one and only Stilinski in town, unaware that you don't play with fire if you have no idea how to control it.

 

_"Stilinski, I need to talk to your father."_

_"You don't."_

_"You have been skipping my class. I need to talk to your guardian about this."_

 

That gave Stiles a bitter taste in his throat, made him want to run to the restroom and break a mirror or two. But he didn't, he _doesn't_. Instead, he plays along and puts on _the_ mask of a Stiles Stilinski everyone comes to know; a sarcastic skinny and defenseless boy who cracks jokes and tells you about how he failed to score in all lacrosse game since the day he joined, the kind of Stilinski that is _harmless_. Lydia taught him how to take control, to _be_ in control because _dear Stiles, you have such power no one could ever defy you so crush and burn, crush and burn...._

The boy feels fire in between his fingers, the tingling ignition of wanting to burn everything before his eyes in anger as he illustrates a picture of how they'd crumble beneath his feet, dead soldiers . Beacon Hills will fall and everything will fall to pieces, the buildings the walls the sky and Stiles will stand above all their bodies, their remains with Lydia beside him, king and queen ready to reign--

 

"Fine. Do as you please."

 

Stiles had learned how to control his power but never promised anything about the lies he said.

 

-

 

Lydia thinks they need to be kept on leash, the people who look down on her and her brother. She thinks mortal education was not enough to keep them at bay, they need something more, something greater than textbooks and formulas written on board. They need to be disciplined, need to listen to what she and Stiles have to say and understand who's in charge of the town they drown in. Besides, what choice do they have anyway? None.

She is the kind of girl who wraps her fingers (blood red nails long and sharp they draw cuts and punctures) around the baseline of a boy's neck and squeeze the life out of his Adam apple and _plop_ , watched it torn apart splashing crimson on her branded silky dress, not like Lydia cares anyway. Of course, it's not the kind of gesture a daddy's girl would do. You expect a genius who keeps record of a five-point-zero grade average to walk along the hallway looking perfect and good and to stay out of trouble because _dear Lydia, you are daddy's perfect girl and you have to keep things that way._

 

But _darling_ , control is perfection and Lydia can only take control when she's standing above them, beyond them.

_Silly humans._

_-_

 

Adrian Harris leans against the couch like a spineless sloth as he watched the baseball match he barely understood. He's a chemistry teacher for god sake and he should be in his room reading crap out of molecular bonds instead of sitting there with cans of beer and Chinese take outs looking like he's sane enough to understand a baseball game. But maybe, he should have learned a little about appreciating sports so he wouldn't have to pause for suspicious knocks against the door.

 

_Maybe. (if luck was on his side-- sadly, it wasn't)_

 

When he turned the knob of his door, he had expected something....something _normal_ , like a delivery boy of some sort. Indeed what he did not expect was a delivery of five fingers around his neck, gripping and snapping the remaining oxygen that his lips could muster, knife sharp nail hidden underneath rough glove he could feel it drilling holes into his Adam's apple--

 

_Snap._

 

Bone cracks, spine breaks and life spills leftovers as blood cries splats against the wall, on the floors, jump a target onto the couch, _the teacher's couch_ like stains and dirt do not matter at all. Head tilting and throat ragged opened mister chemistry had his back misplaced and mistreated by the corner of his own house, empty eyes and ripped lips he looked like he was crazed opened by a big bad wolf in the woods.

 

Somewhere across the distance a boy shrieks a laughter and jumps to his feet, celebrating.

 

-

 

Lydia is always in charge of breakfast.

 

Ever since Claudia became the replacement of her old, dead mother (not that Lydia knew about this until she hit seventeen), she had proposed an idea to her father, "I want to meet my step brother and I want to live with him and his family." It was easy when you have a father who only gives a shit about work and money, fame and wealth and it's a hell lot easier when he has no idea of Lydia's truest intention of living with the Stilinskis. Her father didn't even ask why. Of course, if he did ask, Lydia wouldn't know what to say.

Or maybe she did know. Maybe part of it was because she thought Claudia and her father were her perfect parents, one happy family.

Problem is, it wasn't like that. When Lydia knew that she wasn't the only one coming from Claudia's womb, she had wanted to scream and reach the sink for a retch. It felt dirty and disgusting and terrifying though the horror quickly faded as soon as she realized that she may have a brother who is equally as gifted as she was. Every night Lydia went to bed thinking about her half brother, about the gift the talent the skill he might have and it was between those nights Lydia first woke up screaming, sweating, pulling bed sheets and reaching corners.

 

There was a boy in her dream, a teenager just like her, who smelled like dry blood and rotting flesh. He made no attempt to move but _she_ was the one walking _towards_ him and it was so, so crazy Lydia couldn't believe herself for digging in the superstitious ( _dragons aren't real and certainly not magic and demons!_ ) but there she was in a dream with endless path and dark tunnel heading towards a bloodied hand reaching out to her face--

 

She had woken up screaming, half crying, extremely baffled.

 

There was blood on her bed, blood that wasn't hers.

 

 

A few months later Lydia woke up on a bed in a house that she didn't grew up in.

Beacon Hills was anything but London air. It was quiet, solemn, like a small stranger town she watched in horror movies, the kind of town with motels covered in neon lights and neighbors who share news and probably worn out clothing altogether; it's the kind of place where trees stood in vast abundance and you heard rumors and myths about werewolves, shape-shifting creatures and demons wandering in the woods. There was fog and mist and shrouded mystery and Lydia fell in love with such atmosphere almost instantly.

It was then she realized that she's _(acting)_ a part of the Stilinskis _(as if)_.

 

She flashed a smile (that never made it pass her heart).

 

 

The sheriff is a good man, _too good to be true_ , and Lydia has grown to really love him, like he's her father when he never was. He accepted her and built a space in his heart for an extra child, a daughter (that does not belong to him). "At least now we can have more than just instant food and raw vegetables for lunch," he joked, "Lydia, be our chef, would you?" he added.

"Of course--"

"You can call me 'dad' just like how Stiles does it."

Lydia paused and saw the warmth in his eyes, threw a glance at Stiles and received a nod in return. It was true, it felt true and for the first time in her life, Lydia gave the sheriff the best smile she could ever maintain, just the way the man deserves to be treated.

The girl has been in charge of breakfast ever since.

 

 

Despite all that--

\--the reason has always been and will forever be _Stiles_. Stiles Stilinski, the boy who spent his life hidden from reality, who spent his sixteen years of existence thinking that he's just one of those lame ass class clown who'd never score a goal in any lacrosse practice. He was protected, was concealed from the truth about his mother, about what Claudia was capable of doing. He grew up funny, sarcastic and just _plain ol' kind_ but really, were any of those even true?

 

Lydia doesn't think so.

 

She saw the way he looked at Billy, some obese kid who ate too many sandwiches and drank too much coke for his own good. Stiles had always been his target of bullying, the one Billy loved to shove around for the sake of satisfying his big "I need a joke to laugh" stomach. It made Lydia sick to her stomach. No one, not even a single bug is allowed to toy with her brother like that, even if they weren't directly related. _Still_ , it made her blood boil so damn much she almost used the hose at the school ground to choke him--

 

_Or maybe she didn't have to._

 

Lydia hid the awe behind her red lips when she witnessed tiny sparks from between Stiles' clenched fists.

 

_The boy never needed help, he just needed a push._

 

 

Lydia drizzles maple syrup on Stiles' portion of pancakes because she remembers how he likes them flooded and drenched. He never told her straight up why but there's no need to. She _reads_ minds (and tracks them like a trained predator she was bred to be), as ridiculous as that sounds and she reads Stiles' just fine although some occasions she couldn't do that, especially when he's using his own gift; maple syrup on pancakes has reminded Stiles of red fountain of their victims when wounds bleed and cuts spurt. It's sick but it's what made Stiles a great partner she can work with.

Four minutes later the sheriff and her brother walked out of their room. Lydia points towards the coffee mug and the drowning pancakes to both of them, earning a childish cheer from Stiles and a _"god bless you Lydia for knowing what I need"_ from her father.

 

"How's school?"

It's that kind of cliche topic in the kitchen that made Lydia smile (because normal is out of the question and it felt like ages ever since she felt _normal_ ), as much as Stiles is dreading it.

"Nothing good ever happened in school, dad."

"Really? I thought you and Scott have this-- friends do everything together because it's fun...thing," Lydia hides a smile as she pours syrup on her breakfast (not as much as Stiles' but the image of red 'syrup' burns in the back of her mind that it made her a little too... _excited_ ), "Lydia told me she aced last week's chemistry exam."

"If Lydia doesn't ace in the things she do then we are all doomed," Stiles teases, laughing like what he meant is what he said. He gives her a glance and Lydia picks up what his intention was like she always does (because _no, no, Stiles Stilinski is not as silly as you think, not as harmless as you remember him to be_ ). They're connected, in that sort of unspoken way you wouldn't understand, "Lydia always aces everything and by everything, I really mean _anything_."

She returns his gaze with a glare so venomous she found him smirking.

The boy amuses her to no end, that she has to give him credit for. Stiles doesn't cower in fear, he never does and that's why she likes it. All the boys in the school stoop so low they would kiss her feet if it means dating _the_ Lydia Martin but Stiles, dear brother is always so different yet so similar in almost everything she does.

"But of course," the sheriff gives her yet another assuring fatherly smile, so young so tender so caring like she was meant to be part of the family, "after all, we  do have the smartest girl of Beacon Hills here, don't we?"

Stiles snickers, Lydia grimaces. If she could, she'd pin him against the wall right then and there and tell him to shut up before he can even spill the slightest drop of their secret, their dirty bloody secret.

 

_'Too bad my dad is still around.'_

_'Oh shut up, Stiles. I'm going to hang your head as a furniture.'_

 

He lets out a hearty laugh as if his pancakes look crooked and overcooked (but they aren't because Lydia is capable of doing everything anything perfectly without flaw), _'be my guest.'_

 

Lydia pretends like the way he laughs was never distracting, like the way his brown eyes were never frightening when they landed on her green ones. Being in control, she knows how to fake it, how to _be_ fake, just the way she was trained to be.

 

"Oh, Stiles, that reminds me--"

It was Lydia's turn to smirk when her brother's hand slipped and the fork fell, crystal clear clang against the porcelain floor. She had sent him a signal, a few golden words of advice before the sheriff, _their father_ , could even speak up. _He remembers, Stiles, he remembers_ and it entertained her to watch the boy's clumsy side, for a moment pretending like he's just another ordinary teenage boy caught shoplifting a chocolate bar.

"Your teacher, Mr.Harris called--"

 

"Hey dad," Lydia interrupts, hiding a smile, "I wonder if you've read the paper today--"

"The paper? What's with the paper?"

"Apparently they found him, _Mr. Harris_ ," Lydia blinks innocence above malevolent biting underneath her skin, "he's on the paper. He turned up dead, by the way." she shrugs like it was the most obvious thing in the world, like death is just another way of describing a sleep (or maybe it is).

"What--" the sheriff had pushed his chair a little too hard that it stumbled and crushed the floor. He didn't bother touching his coffee or his pancakes anymore, too engrossed and engaged on what's printed. Lydia watches from across the kitchen counter, watching the man's back leaning against the couch, probably still too stunned to move or even say a word. Boy was she glad their dining table wasn't at the same point as their living room.

 

_"Damn it, Lydia."_

_"What."_

"I was questioned!"

" _Almost_ questioned," she corrects, her fork pointing inches away from Stiles' left eye, "but you didn't," she lowers her voice, " _nobody_ is going to question us and _nobody_ is going to drag us into the court and tell us what to say, what to confess. _We don't_ do that, Stiles; we do not confess and nobody will ever know."

"Whatever," he goes back to eating, goes back to keeping attention fixed on his messy breakfast, "I wish I can trust you--" he throws a side stare but with lips forming a thin, challenging grin. _So young yet so twisted, what a poor youth wasted._

"You can't trust someone who isn't as _special_ as us." she murmurs.

"So you think we are special?" he chuckles.

Stiles stops staring at his pancakes, suddenly losing interest in them. He folds his arms and waits for her to continue, waits for her to punch some more sarcasm and derisive words to his face.

 

"Look--"

"Aw, you're not using your gift against me. How _boring_." he blows a sigh, giving her that twisted smile he always gave to their victims and it made Lydia's blood boils and coils in a way she doesn't quite understand herself. This Stiles, this kind of personality of his is a weapon in itself, his weapon, _their_ weapon. The way his lips twitched and the way his eyes slice wounds on your surface, the way they cleave and burn open whatever it is you're hiding beneath all your tissues and system -- they all speak of corruption and destruction in unison.

"I am not abandoning you." _because you're my brother, you're like me_

 

Stiles looks down, at his fingers dancing, gliding across the table. They land on Lydia's naked palm and she holds her breath, the tremor the fear the _suspicion_ (of being betrayed, of being killed) shaking and quaking under her pair of indoor slippers. She would have jerked backwards and fell from the chair if she wasn't anything like him--

 

But she was, she is. She was like him and vice versa. They have no idea what they are but normality is out of the question; _darn_ , it doesn't even exist in Lydia's book of vocabularies anymore!

 

"Good," he grins, raising tension pressing threats, "because we know how bad I am when I'm angry."

Lydia smiles, the same old kind of wickedly sinister smile that Stiles has grow accustomed to. She grips his wrist so tight it's going to leave marks and traces, she just knew it. And yet nobody is saying words like _stop, you're ruining my cells_ because it is not pain they feel, it's power.

"So do I," voice runs cold her words swim in a pool of silver poison and black toxic, "I do not wish to end you, Stiles."

"I know."

 

And they go back to eating their tasteless breakfast like mornings are just mornings and they are your neighborhood, constantly bickering siblings who go to school at the same time, by the same car, departing from the same house.

 

It was _almost_ normal.


End file.
